The kingdom’s frame of wire falls
like houses ushered into night,
quaking deep within their walls.
A drooping wreck of countenance
heaped upon the wreck of virtue
heaped upon the wreck of bliss,
machines all twisted wrung;
monoliths of wicked gods
thrown stark in rusting sun.

A silver Mt. Zion homeward calls,
a weeping lesion’s balm;
heaven—cast still in umber light—
is lined by bone and bolt
and heaped upon the wreck of form
and draped across a shape of stone;
the ghosts of want writ large
across its looming dome.